There is a secret place, deep inside my heart. It is a place of refuge, a place of sanctuary. Here is where I retreat from a world that overwhelms me, a world I can’t control. I bury myself down deep into this solitary place where no one can touch me.

In this place, I am never nervous. There is nothing to be frightened of, no reason to worry about what could happen. Little things like needles and ropes are just that: little things of no importance.

In this place, no one judges me. Not people, not God. In this place, people are patient and quick to offer help. In this place, God looks at me with eyes of absolute mercy and compassion.

In this place, my manhood is never questioned. I am able to defend myself at all times, and no one ever gets the best of me.

In this place, I never back down.

In this place, I can talk to women freely. They do not make me uneasy or insecure. In this place, I always know exactly what to say. I know whether or not someone wants to listen to me, and how long the conversation should last. Here I am always funny, always insightful, always intriguing.

In this place, people laugh with me, not at me.

In this place, I make friends easily. People want to spend time with me, and I don’t have to go to great lengths to prove my worthiness. I always know the right people to befriend, and no one uses me or betrays me.

In this place, I am always right. I never have to worry about correcting my mistakes. In this place, I never have to apologize.

Something had spurred him on that night. Maybe it was his desire to hold an Opal, and not been seen as a one hit wonder in the Outback. Maybe it was being in the spotlight, making a public challenge, and feeling the pressure to capitalize on it. Maybe it was those whispers in his mind, that told him that maybe, just maybe, PathFinder could hold the answer to his riddle. The riddle of twenty plus years of lost memory - who he was, and why he was the person he was now.

He had attacked Miss Queen relentlessly. The first match had been nothing but offensive strikes, albeit some of them feinted. The second match only featured two defensive moves by him, although the last one was the decisive one. After throwing all those punches and kicks, he didn’t think Miss Queen would expect him to merely step out of the way, and luckily for him, he was right.

Now the challenge was over. Miss Queen stood before him, holding PathFinder out in her cupped hands. He saw the sparkling green gem, and took it in his hands. He couldn’t help but hold it up to his face and stare. Then he heard its voice for the first time.

What is my name, Gren?

Gren’s eyes wavers slightly, as if he was trying to understand the simple question that PathFinder posed to him. He blinked rapidly, as if breaking out of a brief trance, then gave Clarice thanks and wished her a good night as she left. He then gave PathFinder a long, sideways look.

What is my name?

The question came again, and again Gren blinked rapidly, before stuffing the Opal in his black Badside Brawlers hoodie. He nodded to those he knew that remained, before taking his leave of the Outback. As he walked home to his treehouse, he wondered what the Opal meant by asking him such an obvious question. Was it trying to trick him? He was too tired from his challenge to think. He just wanted to go home and sleep, and that is what he did. He placed the Opal on his nightstand before he pulled his clothes off and curled into his bed to get some much needed rest.

Gren woke that morning, and stumbled around his bedroom in a half-daze, having not wanted to start the day so early. He had patrols to do, and people to protect. He wanted to see Izira, and see if she could use some help at the Inn. Gren absently scratched at his head while he sat in his kitchen, eating some cereal, when suddenly he remembered what the Opal had said to him the night before. Curious, he took his bowl into his bedroom, picked up the Green Opal from the nightstand, and sat down at his table near the window. He stared for a while at the dark green streaks and white speckles on the gem’s surface. Then he set it down on the table, while he finished his meal. As soon as he lowered his spoon for the final time, it spoke to him again.

Are you finished?

“Uhhh . . . breakfast? Yeah. I guess.” He spoke out loud, not realizing it could hear his thoughts.

What is my name?

Gren stared off to the side for a long moment, then back at the gem. “PathFinder.”

Do you know why my name is PathFinder?

“No.”

Because that is my ability. FireStar controls fire. IceDancer controls ice. ShadoWeaver? The shadows. Me? Don’t believe that story of me being the “Earth” Opal, although I do have skills in that area. I have the greatest power of all. I help people find their path. That is not as easy a task as you might think.

I know what this is about, my dear Ranger. Something in your brain told you that maybe I could answer some of those questions you have about yourself.

“Well . . . I was certainly hoping you could.”

Hope. Hope is a terrible thing. It gives people delusions of grandeur. Makes them do irrational, ridiculous things.

“But I thought . . . “

Yes. You thought. You think a lot of things.

“You know what I’m thinking?”

Of course I do. I know more about you than you know about yourself. Let me give you an example. Let’s start with your little comic book collection.

“Okay . . . “

Tara - that’s your crazy, redheaded, fake wife - said that you read them because you crave the fantasy. That you wish to be something or someone that your aren’t. But that’s not exactly the truth. You already live the life of a superhero, in a sense. You are a soldier of the forest, and your job is to defend people, animals, plantlife . . . you get the idea. You do a relatively good job of it, in your awkward little way. So you don’t need to live vicariously through made up cartoons.

Gren nods softly.

What you really crave is something else. You see, comics are structured in a particular way. There is a good guy. There are bad people. Bad people do bad things. The good guy steps forward and stops them. The good guy gets the good girl. Then he gets his happy ending. Happily ever after, right? When your mind was wiped, it did more than take your memories. It took your hopes, your dreams, and your morality – your sense of what is ‘right’ and ‘wrong’. The comics provided you with a structure, something to make sense of the world with. You are the good guy. They, meaning goblins, criminals, whatever, are the bad people. They do bad things, and you step forward and stop them. Izira is your good girl. The Inn is your ‘Happily Ever After’. You kept saying it to Izira, remember? “I want my happy ending”. Your mind doesn’t crave fantasy, Gren. It craves . . . order.

Gren sat in his chair for a few long moments, not knowing what to say.

I’m telling you this for a reason, Gren, because I know what you are going to ask of me. You think you want me to give it to you. But it’s not something that you’re going to want, believe me.

“Are you saying . . . you can’t help me?”

Oh, I can “help” you, Gren. The problem is it wouldn’t exactly be the kind of help you think it would be.

“What does that mean?”

It means that I am not your Fairy Godmother. I am not here to wave a magic wand and make all your problems go away.

“That’s not . . . I want to know the truth.”

No, you don’t.

Gren stared for a long minute at the gem lying on the table.

Perhaps I can explain. I know what you want. You want me to restore your lost memories. Set your life back on the right path. I’m here to tell you that there is nothing wrong with your life. You are an admirable person, in a “Little Engine That Could” sort of way. That’s high praise coming from me. You help people for a living. You are a successful dueler. You have a beautiful, loving girlfriend. Someday, you’ll retire from the dangerous life of a Ranger and run that Inn with Izira, providing a sanctuary for those in need.

“You don’t understand . . . “, Gren begins, getting frustrated.

NO, my dear Ranger, it is YOU that doesn’t understand. You’ve been given a second chance at life. Don’t blow it with this existential garbage.

“How can you deny me this? How can you just blow this off when all I’ve wanted to know for the last seven years is who I am?”

You DON’T want to know, Gren! Do you know why I asked you what my name was? BECAUSE I KNOW WHO I AM! Do you know who YOU are? DO YOU STILL THINK YOUR NAME IS “GREN BLOCKMAN”?

The Opal’s voice thundered in his mind. He felt his hands shake, and his mouth quiver.

You are not ready. Don’t do this. Because if you ask that of me? I’ll do it, just out of spite. It’s a path you’re not prepared to travel down. You are Gren Blockman, the Ranger. Be Gren Blockman, the Ranger. There is nothing wrong with that.

In his mind, Gren frantically tried to retreat from PathFinder, and the words it spoke. He rose from his table, hurriedly pocketing the Opal. I have patrols to do. I have people to protect. They need me. I have to see Izira today. She may need my help at the Inn. He repeated it over and over to comfort his mind. He pushed the conversation with PathFinder out of his thoughts and hurried out the door.

Blackthorn Tavern was just reopening after the battles from weeks previous. Smashed in during the assault by the goblins and orcs, and partially caught on fire, it had been rebuilt and ready for business. The grand re-opening would not be as joyous an occasion as the owners had believed. During the lunch hour, a band of lumberjacks had made their way into the Tavern. Some of them began to drink, and some began to play cards. One of the lumberjacks at the poker game was named Vann. He was a six foot six inch bully of a man known for his explosive temper and drinking. His face was scarred by years of bar fights. He engaged himself in a game of poker with some of the locals. Mug after mug of ale was consumed while he slowly began losing his weeks salary in the high stakes games. His dark eyes narrowed at one of the players, a farmer from nearby, who seemed to be winning an awful lot more than he should be. It came down to one hand. Vann had a full house, two Jacks and three Sevens. He wouldn’t be seeing another hand like that. He went back and forth with the farmer, raising the pot until he was all in. Exposing a row of yellowed teeth, Vann laid his hand down on the table, and even began to reach his arms out to collect his money, when the farmer quickly exposed his own cards. Four Queens. Vann gaped in astonishment while the farmer laughed and gathered his coins.

“Better luck next time”, the farmer joked good naturedly.

But Vann was in no mood. The ale, the cards, his week’s salary. There was no way that farmer got that lucky. He must have cheated. Vann rose from his seat menacingly, making his way over to the farmer who watched him questioningly.

The farmer reacted quickly, reaching for a nearby bottle, but it was too late. Vann pulled a knife from his vest and shoved it into the farmer’s ribs. Screams erupted from the patrons, as people fled for the exits. The farmer cried out, then gurgled, as he slumped down to the floor, his blood leaking onto the wooden floor of the Tavern. Vann gathered up the farmer’s coins and made for the door, shoving his way past anyone who tried to stop him. He disappeared into the woods to the north. The proprietor of the Tavern alerted the local Ranger’s guild of the death of the farmer and the fugitive Vann.

Friday, December 20, 2013

Vann had fled several miles into an evergreen forest, searching for a place to hide for a few days. He found a low cave carved out below a rocky outcropping, and hunkered down for the night. Too drunk and queasy from the events of the previous afternoon to stay awake, he curled up into a ball and fell asleep. The next morning, he awoke with a hangover, but still aware enough of what he had done. His growling stomach forced him from his cave, and he prowled through the forest looking for something to eat. Perhaps he could find a pond with some fish, or catch a rabbit or . . .

Vann stilled. He turned his head and looked off into the undergrowth of the evergreen forest. He could have sworn he saw something. He stared off at the spot where he saw movement. Better to be safe than sorry, he thought, and quickly walked up to the thick trunk, leaping around to see what it was. There was nothing there. His head darted around to see if he could locate anything amiss, but he saw nothing. Grumbling, he started off through the woods again. As he made his trek through the forest, the hair on his neck stood up, and he continually thought he could see something stirring on the edges of his vision. His head darted around as he became more and more paranoid. His pace quickened. He found his path continually blocked by vines and rocks. A shadow, human shaped, flew past him on his right. Finally, he broke into a run, stumbling through the undergrowth, until he tripped and collapsed against a large pine. His breathing was heavy, and the puffs he blew out were visible in the winter sky. His eyes darted frantically into the corners of the forest, looking for any sign he could of his pursuer.

Beneath him, the vines of the forest began to curl around his legs. At first he didn’t notice, then as he felt them creep up his shins, he cried out, and struggled to rid himself of them. As his focus dropped to his legs, suddenly two arms shot out from the tree behind him, one wrapping around his neck, then other around his chest.

It was Gren. He had been sent by the Rangers Guild to track the murderer. He used PathFinder’s powers to hide himself from Vann. The minor power of Animation was used to control the vines, and the major power of Camouflage was used to make his way through the forest, and reach through the living trunk of the pine tree.

“Who the hell are you?” Vann called out.

“I said don’t move.” Gren repeated.

Vann’s hand slowly lifted up to the pocket in his vest.

You should kill him before he gets that knife, PathFinder said, echoing in Gren’s mind.

“I’ll kill you before you get that knife.” Gren spoke aloud. He felt the words barreling out of his mouth right after PathFinder spoke, as if he had been compelled to by the Opal. Still, he was able to twist the words somewhat, and did not lash out violently.

Vann froze, knowing he was caught. His breathing was still rapid. He gulped. “So what are you going to do with me?”

Vann did as he was instructed. Gren then took the knife from his pocket, and slid it into his Ranger’s cloak. Then he bound Vann’s hands behind his back, preparing him for the march back to civilization.

“Now walk.” Gren commanded.

Vann craned his neck back. “A Ranger? You’re a damned Ranger? Not even a Ranger is that good. How the hell could I not see you?”

Gren did not answer, but pushed him forward, then followed behind as he escorted Vann through the forest and the Guild compound.

Oh, that was great! We make a hell of a team, Gren. Sherlock and Watson! The Hardy Boys! Turner and Hooch! We need to do this more often.

I don’t know what you’re talking about, Gren replied in his mind.

Sure you do! This is fun. Tracking down criminals. Bringing them to justice. I could get used to this.

Gren . . . . Let’s not bring that subject up again, alright? We were having such a good time.

You just said I wanted your powers, and I got them. So let me use them.

Look, maybe I should explain a few things . . .

I don’t think any explaining needs to be done.

Not now. Alright? Just . . . . Give me a while. It’s not as simple as you think it is . . . I’ve . . . I think I may have . . .

Gren waited.

Later. Let’s talk about this later.

Gren sighed. He marched through the forest watching his prisoner. Something didn’t feel right with PathFinder any more. Was it doubt? Guilt? He couldn’t tell exactly. He had a job to do, so he focused on that, escorting the captured lumberjack through the northern forests.

The Gra’both tribe of orcs had seemed to go underground after the battles of the previous month. Still, once a week, the Rangers would receive a report that some were skulking about the far north, near the mountains that they called home. An outpost or homestead would see a small war band, marching as if on a recon mission. It kept everyone in the area on edge, and on the lookout in case the tribe went on the warpath again. Early Monday morning, Perrigan received word that a warband had crossed into a farming community and were snooping around. He sent Gren north to assess the situation along with the Recon teams. They fanned out over a wide area when they got to the community. Gren had spent most of the day talking to the local farmers to see if they had witnessed anything. Most had not, but Gren’s trail of clues soon led to one of the outlying dairy farms. He approached the buildings and noticed that it was eerily quiet. The usual hustle and bustle of farmhands was nonexistent, and discarded tools like shovels and pails lay haphazardly around the yard. Moving through the barns, he came upon a disturbing sight. Five orcs, all holding swords, were standing in a semi-circle around a young man, his wife, and his young son. The dead bodies of their farmhands lay before them. A tall orc wearing a pointed metal helmet was barking at the family, as if trying to get information from them. The son was crying in his mother’s arms, while the father, with a panicked look, acted like he didn’t know what they were asking for. Gren hid behind a chicken coop, and glanced nervously around its wall. I don’t think they’ve seen me, he thought, now what do I do.

I suggest you get the hell out of here, PathFinder sounded off in his mind.

I can’t do that. I have to help that family.

How? By dying? There’s five of them against one of you. Not to mention any others that might be hanging around.

I have to do something.

Which means if you get killed, I get carried off to some orc’s nest to spend the rest of my existence. Naw, we’re not doing this. Come on, let’s get out of here.

Gren began to object, when the lead orc brought his sword down in mid-conversation and drove it into the chest of the farmer. The farmer cried out and grasped his wound, before falling onto his back. The wife screamed and knelt beside him.

Oh my God! Gren mentally exclaimed, and he whipped his bow from around his shoulder, beginning to notch an arrow.

Whoa, whoa, whoa, what are you doing? Don’t tell me you’re going to fight these guys?

The orc with the pointed helmet began to yell at the woman, and aimed his sword for the son. The wife threw herself on top of the boy. The orc’s blade fell, stabbing the woman while the boy still clung to her.

Gren had his arrow ready too late to save the woman, but he stood from behind the coop and fired his bow at the orc with the pointed helmet. He had brought his sword up to finish off the boy, when the arrow pierced him through the neck, causing him to choke and drop his weapon. The other four orcs turned their head to focus on the threat, momentarily forgetting about the child.

Gren ran towards the four orcs, getting off another shot that struck one of them in the heart, before withdrawing his oaken staff.

The one on the right! Hit him first, you’re not taking me down with you!

Gren’s staff was lifted in an upward swing, and he caught the orc under the chin, striking him with enough force to knock him off his feet. Gren then spun to the left and swept the legs out from the second orc still standing. He faced down his final adversary, who took a wild swing with his sword that missed him on his right side. Gren brought his staff down in a crushing blow upon the orc’s unprotected skull. The three orcs writhed on the ground, trying to get to their feet, while Gren made it to the farmer’s son.

I can’t believe you did that, Gren, you must have a lucky horseshoe up your @$$.

“Are you okay? Come on, son, I have to get you to safety.” Gren lifted the boy into his left arm. “Wrap your arms around my neck, we’re getting out of here.” The boy was still crying for his mother and father, but did as Gren told him.

One of the orcs Gren subdued had made it to his feet, and lifted a wicked black horn to his lips, sounding an alarm.

$#!&! Run dammit, run! PathFinder yelled.

Shouts and grunts of surprise could be heard all around him, as suddenly orcs began to pour into the farm from the surrounding fields. Gren ran past the downed orcs and through the barns. Suddenly, he could hear explosions from behind him. One of the barns to his left exploded in a ball of flame. He risked a look behind him, and he saw what the cause was. Orc shamans had emerged, and were casting fireballs at him as he tried to make his getaway. Arrows began to whistle through the air as well, as archers joined in the attack. One of the fireballs erupted too close to him, momentarily sending him to his knees, but he struggled back up and tried to cut through a wheat field.

LEFT SIDE! LEFT SIDE!

Two orcs had appeared in the wheat field and would be on top of him before he could get away. He shifted the boy to his right arm, and taking his staff in his left, he sent a high slash of its tip into the face of the first, causing the orc to stumble back into the second.

SHAMAN ON YOUR RIGHT!

Gren instinctively ducked, and a fireball went whistling over his head to burst in the field and set it ablaze.

There’s a river up ahead!

Gren ran down to the bank of the river, and jumped in with the farmer’s son. He found a log for them to hold on to, and he let the swift current carry them downstream. He peered over the log and saw the orcs had made it to the shore, but he was too far gone at that time for them to reach him with their arrows and spells. Breathing a sigh of relief, he checked himself to see if he was wounded, and he looked to be in one piece.

I can’t believe you just did that. Why did you do that? PathFinder asked him with a mixture of anger and wonderment.

That’s what I do.

PathFinder did not answer him, other than with a sullen, yet questioning silence.

After a harrowing trip down the river, Gren made it back to his Ranger Guild’s compound with the farmer’s son, who was shaken, but unhurt. He would be delivered to his aunt and uncle’s after being questioned about the attack on the farm. Gren’s whole body was weary from the day’s events, and he found a cot in the barracks to sleep in for the night.
He awoke the next morning and dragged himself to the mess hall to get some breakfast. He got buckwheat pancakes, scrambled eggs, and a mug of coffee from the cook, and went to one of the many benches to sit down. It wasn’t the spread that Izira would have fixed him, but it got the job done. Finishing his meal, he stared absently out the window, going over what happened the previous day.

Gren?

Yeah.

I want you to know I admire what you did yesterday.

Thank you.

Because of that . . . I need to tell you something. I have a confession to make.

Gren blinked, looked away from the window, and pulled the Opal from his grey cloak. He looked down at the green stone in his hand.

I told you my name was PathFinder because I help people find their paths. That’s not exactly the truth. I just told you that story to make myself seem . . . more important. I suppose they named me PathFinder because it sounds catchier than “EarthGem”. You’d have to ask the half-orc and the sorceress about that.

Gren nodded softly.

And . . . uh . . . I can’t restore your memories. I don’t have that power. I know that’s what you wanted of me, I just didn’t want to come right out and say it. So I told you I could, but you wouldn’t want me to, so I would still seem as powerful as you thought I was. I can sense your thoughts, your desires, maybe psychoanalyze you a bit. That’s how I knew about your comic books, and that’s how I know your name probably isn’t Gren Blockman. It doesn’t quite seem to fit you for some reason. But full memory restoration? Can’t do it. I’m sorry, Gren.

Gren sighed and rubbed his eyes with his free hand. He sat there on a bench for a long minute, frustrated and despondent.

I was right about the rest, though. You are Gren Blockman, the Ranger. Just be him. Do you know how lucky you are to have a sweet, giving woman like Izira? To have that Inn, that peaceful sanctuary to spend the rest of your life at? Stop beating yourself up. Don’t jinx this. Everything’s going to be alright for you, even if you don’t get your memories back. You’re on the right path, Gren.

Gren gave a joyless chuckle, and stared off through the window again, past the compound wall and into the pine trees of the forest.

Or maybe . . . I’m just messing with your head again.

Gren looked sharply down at the Opal.

Heh heh. Sorry. Either way, it’s been a fun and interesting ride.

Gren sort of grimaced and tucked the Opal back into his cloak.

Just then, Bernard busted through the doors of the mess hall and came running up to Gren. “Gren! Big trouble out at Purple River! There’s a band of ogres that are tearing through the logging camps! We’ve got to get out there!”

“Let’s go!” Gren jumped out of his seat.

WHAT? Wait wait wait! Ogres? Seriously? What if one of them eats you? I’ll end up coursing through its guts and end up in a pile of ogre $%!#! Gren, don’t do it . . .